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WINNERS

High School Division Best Essay Award

1st Place Best Essay Award and Consul General of Japan Special Award

“Japan: Unlikely Gateway to My Educational Future” by Aidan Sargent (West Hempstead High School)

2nd Place Best Essay Award

“Hope Takes Flight” by Keya Annam (Stuyvesant High School)

3rd Place Best Essay Award

“Sakura: The Essence of Immortality” by Nicola Hsu (Millennium High School)

College Division Best Essay Award

None

Uchida Memorial Award

“Memoirs of a Bento Box” by Kaytie Tanoue (Stony Brook University)

FINALISTS

SEMIFINALISTS

1st Place Best Essay Award in the High School Division and

 

Consul General of Japan Special Award

“Japan: Unlikely Gateway to My Educational Future”

by Aidan Sargent (West Hempstead High School)

Until recently, most of the knowledge I had of Japanese history was from the 1950s and later. Videos I saw and articles I read emphasized events like Japan’s explosive economic growth or the building of an extensive high speed shinkansen train network. But in my history classes, I noticed an odd phenomenon. I remember vivid, detailed discussions in class about the horrors of the Nazi concentration camps across Europe, or the storming of Normandy. At one point, we even completed a class project on Anne Frank, where we learned every gruesome detail of her life during Nazi rule. And yet, Japanese involvement, aside from the Pearl Harbor attacks and the atomic bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, seemed like a mere footnote, an afterthought.

I remember that throughout my time learning about the second World War in those classes, the atomic bombs were presented as a unilaterally good thing. They might have caused destruction, but they helped the Allies win the war, so it was ok. But we never discussed the true extent of the destruction the atomic bombs caused – I had to do that on my own. Out of curiosity alone, I looked for more information on the damage caused. I was shocked. Hundreds of thousands of people dead, just like that. People quite literally vaporized the instant the bomb exploded. Thousands more suffering from the aftereffects of radiation. Questions bounced around my head. “Why were we never shown this side of the war?” “How can you omit destruction on this scale?” Although I didn’t realize it at the time, I now understand that this event was one of the catalysts that led to my decision to major in history.

Beyond my interest in history, I also want to help create a more equal view of the historical topics we study. Viewing historical topics through one single focus is like cropping an image: you only end up seeing what you want to. But that is not how history should be studied. It needs to be understood that there can be multiple perspectives on the same event, and they should all be examined to get a more encompassing view of what happened. Learning history should not be about memorization of certain facts, or only hearing one opinion on how things went down. True historical research should instead focus on the analysis of the totality of events, and how they tie into each other.

As a historian, I see myself helping to promote this way of thinking. College-level history classes often focus on the analysis of varied perspectives as opposed to memorization of a singular perspective. I can also help reinforce this viewpoint among my peers. In my opinion, Japanese history in particular needs to be viewed with this higher level of nuance. The history of Japan is not only long and storied, but throughout time it has often clashed with Western views and perspectives, leading to misunderstanding by American audiences. Studying the actions taken by Japan during World War II, its expansion throughout East Asia and the Pacific, and even further in the past, when Japan operated as a closed country and absorbed cultural values and educational ideas from the Chinese allows for a more in-depth understanding of the country. Without viewing Japan as a place with a complex history that needs examining from all sides, we cannot understand the true impact of these events.

My connection to Japan may not be linguistic, cultural, or gastronomical, but the way its history was taught to me had a larger impact on my future than I could have realized at the time. Without seeking out new information and perspectives, I might never have realized my passion for studying history.

©Japan Center at Stony Brook 

2nd Place Best Essay Award in the High School Division

“Hope Takes Flight” by Keya Annam (Stuyvesant High School)

A thousand different thoughts race through my mind as I struggle to complete the intricate inside-reverse fold. I sigh in relief as I admire the perfect triangle that forms the head. I fold down the wings and pull them outwards, giving what was once a flat, colorfully designed paper the power of flight. It flies into my circular glass jar and I count; I now have 201 paper cranes.

The Japanese word: “Orizuru,” or paper crane, is the origin of the universal word for the art of paper-folding: “Origami.” My fascination with origami paper cranes began in elementary school through the story Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes. The story illustrated the journey of a young Japanese girl, Sadako, who was diagnosed with leukemia after the bombing of Nagasaki and Hiroshima. Bed-ridden, she turned to ancient Japanese legend, believing that anyone who folds 1,000 paper cranes will be granted a wish by the gods. Sadako then set out to fold paper cranes in hopes that she may get better, making a total of 1,400 before her death.

While the cranes may not have granted Sadako life, I believe they granted her something just as valuable. The paper cranes gave Sadako hope. And because of that hope, Sadako never surrendered to her circumstances no matter how hopeless her situation might have seemed. She fought bravely until the very end and so as untimely as her death was, the life she lived was not –and never will be– in vain.

But not all can be as strong as Sadako was. Hope is as fleeting as it is powerful and on the day of the bombing, many, many people had lost hope. Sitting in my elementary school classroom, I wanted to believe that history could be changed. But deep down, I knew it was futile. All I could do was hope that history would never be repeated and hope would be restored. But in 2019, the world fell into despair once again.

Covid-19 started just like any other crisis I knew. I watched the news from the inner sanctuary of my home in New York City, disconnected from the events taking place halfway across the world. But the similarities end there. Covid-19 was quick to sweep over the entire world and suddenly the city that never slept was brought to a standstill. Offices and schools shut down the building and went remote. People entered quarantine, leaving their homes only to scavenge through the remaining open grocery stores for the last bag of flour. The usually bustling subway stations were now only inhabited by yellow circles placed six feet apart. Masks became mandatory and news of family get-togethers for the holidays were replaced by the strong recommendation to stay home in order to minimize the spread. Even then, hospitals were unable to keep up with the cases and we were left with no choice but to create a mass grave. And so at the end of the day, we were left with nothing but the reporting of death tolls to fill the silence.

I experienced for the first time what it meant to lose hope. And I watched as the rest of the world joined me.

But during that time, when it seemed as if nothing was right in the world, I was reminded of Sadako’s story. I remembered how bravely she fought and realized that no matter how dark the future seems sometimes, we must not surrender hope because as long as there is hope, there is a chance.

So one day, after finishing my online classes, I searched. I searched inside myself and I searched in the space around me which had become both my school and my home. I looked past what I had lost and instead focused on what I still had. I still had a roof over my head and warm clothes to sleep in. I was lucky to have three meals a day and a safe place to study. But most of all, I was fortunate because I still had my family and when everything was over, I would see them all again. Pulling out a thick stack of paper from inside my desk, I blew off the dust that coated its surface. It was an assortment of origami paper I had gotten as a gift. I pulled out the first sheet of paper; a lighthouse stood on a bed of rocks, illuminating the night sea. A beacon in the darkness; I have one paper crane.

©Japan Center at Stony Brook

3rd Place Best Essay Award in the High School Division

“Sakura: The Essence of Immortality” by Nicola Hsu (Millennium High School)

In the first few years of a person’s life, one’s memory is fragmented and blurry. I am no exception.

My earliest memory brings me back to Akasaka, Tokyo. Our home was located near a street called sakurazaka. Its name derives from the word sakura–cherry blossoms; it was famous for sightseeing during the cherry blossom season. Every morning, my mother would drop me off at the nearby preschool located on sakurazaka street. One morning, during the peak blooming season, after letting go of my mother’s embrace, a single cherry petal fell to my feet. I looked down and saw intricate and delicate petals gazing back at me. A beautiful birth and a swift death represent the cycle of rebirth.

As a child seeing sakura for the first time, I couldn’t help but notice how they were so beautiful yet impermanent. Falling from its branch so early into the blooming season, I wondered why such a beautiful flower fell just within two weeks of its first bloom. The soft petals fell en masse onto the ground, creating a mesmerizing carpet of blush hues.

In the state of hazakura, few sakura petals remain while buds of the new tree begin to form. The sakura’s beautiful birth, subsequent death, and miraculous rebirth represent me. After leaving Japan and moving to America at a young age, most of my memories from Japan vanished into thin air as I began my new life in America. The beginning of my life spent in Japan would now be left behind as I adapted to the new culture of the West. Without understanding the English language nor Western culture, I felt lost in my newly formed hybrid identity.

Over the next ten years, living in the hustle and bustle of New York City, full of people from diverse cultures and ethnicities, I adapted to my new environment but still felt like an outsider. Each spring, I cannot help but think of Japan’s sakura season and reminisce about the good old memories from my childhood in Japan–short and sweet, not wanting to let them go. My dad practices Mahayana Buddhism; he told me that one’s inner peace and immortality derive from the six parami of Buddhism: generosity, discipline, patience, perseverance, concentration, and wisdom. At first, I didn’t see a point in practicing this ancient religion, but as I grew older, I began to understand the essence: to perform as many good deeds as possible during one’s lifetime for the benefit of others. It was similar to the allure of the sakura’s spirit.

I’ve come to realize that the foundation of the sakura’s spirit is not simply just one cycle of life and death; it’s an everlasting process that occurs every year, making the sakura immortal. Whenever the sakura flourishes, pretty flowers deliver generosity, and the air permeates with a warm, hopeful feeling to the people. When cherry blossoms have concluded, they’re disciplined to come back next season and prosper. Although it takes time, the sakura’s perseverance deserves merit. Like the sakura, my life isn’t just one cycle. My rebirth by moving to the states was just the first chapter of my life. The hardships I have encountered while adapting have encouraged me to live with meaning and to deliver my goodwill to society. Meanwhile, I strive to prosper as much as possible. Eventually, my spirit will be immortal by the everlasting mark of good deeds.

The future that awaits me will be littered with obstacles to overcome, but these hurdles will be interwoven with the process of the multiple rebirth cycles during my lifetime. The beauty of the sakura reminds us that although our lives are fleeting, we should make endeavors to be benevolent toward others while overcoming our own challenges.

That is the greatest wisdom learned from the sakura.

©Japan Center at Stony Brook

Uchida Memorial Award

“Memoirs of a Bento Box” by Kaytie Tanoue (Stony Brook University)

Most of my core memories occurred from when I was a carefree toddler, to the years I spent in elementary school, gaining consciousness of the world around me. A lot of these memories stemmed from lighthearted moments- like the time I tried natto when I was three or had Kentucky Fried Chicken in Japan for Christmas when I was four. One of the memories I still reflect on to this day might be considered negative, but I refuse to see it that way, and I will tell you why.

To an adult, elementary school sounds like a cakewalk. But looking back at those cramped classrooms, cafeterias, and tables filled with students, people tend to forget how brutal kids can be. The mere thought of lunchtime sent my stomach into a frenzy. It wasn’t just because of hunger, but rather the anxiety that came along with it. Every single day was different, yet the same. My mother would painstakingly pack me elaborate Japanese bento boxes filled with rice balls shaped to look like Pikachu, and fruits and vegetables on rainbow picks. I always thought about how exciting it was. Unfortunately, that excitement quickly died down and was replaced with humiliation. “Ew, why are you eating that? Why does it look like that?” The other kids asked me. At the time, I couldn’t understand the WHY’s. Why is it weird to eat this? Why does it look weird? I. Was. Ashamed. And from that shame, a core memory was created. It didn’t take long for me to start buying lunch from the cafeteria by default and bringing more “American” lunches to school. While I may have been doing my mom a favor by asking for “easier” lunches, I always wondered if she felt disappointed with my decision. My days were no longer filled with the colorfulness of heart-shaped tamagoyaki and octopus sausages. Everything was dull and repetitive- the same cardboard pizza, dry burgers, and stale cafeteria sandwiches replaced what I considered the holy grail- my mother’s cooking and the feeling of home.

As the years progressed from elementary to middle school, I became apathetic toward the judgment around me. I started bringing bento again but always asked my mother to “tone them down.” That feeling of shame still lingered, and that memory lived rent-free in my head. It continued on like that until high school. I was accepted into a STEM magnet high school that celebrated diversity and encouraged inclusivity. I found myself gradually accepting my own identity and suddenly CRAVING rice balls and salmon for lunch. Eventually, I had enough of my own nonsense.

One evening, I felt courageous and asked my mother to pack me a bento “just like the ones I used to eat” as a carefree child. The next day, when we all sat down at our lunch tables, I opened my bento box with shaky hands. As I gazed into the box, I saw a giant Pikachu rice ball staring back at me. “Woah! What is that?” One of my new friends exclaimed, catching attention from the tables around us. Believe me, I was sweatier than a Gari Gari Kun ice pop on a hot summer’s day. Before I knew it, more questions came flying at me. “What are you eating? What’s it made of? What does it taste like?” At first, I was too stunned to speak. These were questions I could answer! No “WHY’s,” but rather, “WHAT’s.” As I answered their questions, they grew more curious. “Would you like to try some?” I offered. And once again, every single day was the same, but slightly different.

My mother eventually started to catch onto what was going on. Even though my bento boxes were wiped clean, I was still coming home hungry. My mother, expecting the worst, was relieved to hear that I was sharing my food, instead of hiding it or throwing it away. “No, Mom. It was delicious… And my friends thought so too!” I told her. She smiled. “Yokatta desu ne. Good to hear.” Since then, my mother started to pack more food to share with my friends. I wasn’t ashamed of my lunches anymore. Instead, I was ashamed of my previous actions. The core memory that once terrorized my inner child became one that soothed my regrets. I no longer look back at it with embarrassment, but with joy instead. All those bitter memories led up to one of my sweetest moments in life- self acceptance and satisfaction.

©Japan Center at Stony Brook